


a wild river to take you home

by binmundane



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, Period-Typical Sexism, Trans Galahad, Trans Male Character, written by a trans man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21825922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binmundane/pseuds/binmundane
Summary: The first time Galahad realized something was wrong, he was only 3.His skin ached to be covered in mud like the other boys, to wear what they wore, to speak how they spoke. When he was told to watch his tongue and talk like a proper lady, his heart burned as well as his eyes with his rage.Galahad has known he was a man since he knew what being a manwas,and while he accepts this part of himself, he knows others won't.-- How Galahad lives with being a man born different in the middle ages, and how Tristan may fit into that.
Relationships: Galahad/Tristan (King Arthur 2004)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	a wild river to take you home

**Author's Note:**

> thank you SO much to [my friend Rainy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanelyWriteful/pseuds/InsanelyWriteful) for betaing! You were amazing at it and this wouldn't be nearly as good without all your help with characterization and grammar. 
> 
> general info for the story:  
i'm a trans man! this is incredibly self-indulgent and was borne out of me being sad and wanting to Stop That Particular Feeling 
> 
> warnings: there is porn between a cis male character and a trans male character, p-in-v penetration, oral sex on a trans male character. the word clit is used, however, the v-word is never used (as it triggers my dysphoria lol)
> 
> there are allusions to sexual assault in this, as Galahad would have a right to be worried about what people would think/do if they found out about his situation. none takes place in this story!!!

The first time Galahad realized something was wrong, he was only 3. 

His skin ached to be covered in mud like the other boys, to wear what they wore, to speak how they spoke. When he was told to watch his tongue and talk like a proper  _ lady _ , his heart burned as well as his eyes with his rage. 

After a week of Galahad kicking and screaming when being put into the clothes the ladies of the village wore and biting when being told to be quiet, they let him do as he pleased. 

His hair remained short, and he was pleased to note that he had a similar musculature of every other boy in the village. Some of them still insisted to play soft with him, but most understood he wouldn’t allow it. 

You play soft with Galahad, and he’d get you. 

No one called the little boy Galahad, the name he’d chosen, but that didn’t matter. As long as they didn’t make him wear  _ those  _ garments and let him curse, Galahad was happy. 

He trained and played and trained some more, knowing someday he would be the one to leave the village for Rome. It was decided the tenth time he’d bitten the village leader while he tried to tell him to keep his eyes down, his feet together and underneath him. 

He didn’t understand why his mom cried that night, hugging him to her chest. Wasn’t battle glorious? Wasn’t that the goal of all men — to mount a horse and look into the distance and see one’s enemies, knowing in a few strides you would be on them? 

Maybe his mother didn’t understand; the boys in the village said women didn’t understand things they did. Galahad didn’t think that was true, but he supposed they knew better than him.

Learning the lance and the sword, he built up upper body strength, his prepubescent body looking less so when developing the muscles he did. He liked it. When he caught his reflection in a pond, he smiled. His fair skin was framed by his curls, and his freckles were disappearing as he got older.

It didn’t seem like long enough — the time with his family and his people — when the Romans came to collect him at the age of 10.

Other boys sat on horses, most older than he. His wide eyes narrowed when they looked down at him. 

“This is the best child you have?” 

The village leader nodded his head. “While there are people better with swords, and people better with the lance…” He hesitated, and Galahad looked up at him and saw his face go red with disgust before continuing, “ _ He  _ is the only one proficient in both. You’ll find he works day and night to do as you need.” 

Galahad’s eyes widened, and he felt a joyed sound escape him. 

Never had Galahad thought being called  _ he _ would feel so  _ good _ . Something he never thought before as an option managed to lift the ever-present weight from the back of his skull.

His mother stood three yards away, tears in her eyes, but when their eyes met, she managed a smile at her son’s joy. 

The brown-haired boy in charge of the group looked down at him from where he stood a few feet in front. 

“I’m Arthur, and who are you? I should know the name of our newest warrior.” His smile was kind, and while he was young, his posture and tone commanded respect. 

The only name he knew to be him, the only name he felt worth answering to was of course, “Galahad!” 

—

Fighting was hard, killing was horrible, and socializing as much as he did made him realize the differences between him and others. 

It also taught him that  _ no one _ could find out. 

Three years passed, and his observations told him that someone with the body he had wouldn’t fair well in the event of exposure. 

He talked a lot with Gawain, as well as Lancelot when the other acted tolerable. Being the youngest of all of them, socializing with boys his age who didn’t know his past nor  _ truly _ his present was difficult. They talked of women, of a warm hole to put their cock. 

Gawain looked at Galahad as one of the knights whose name he knew but didn’t care about talked of what a woman at the town had done for him that night, and saw the distaste. 

“Gal?” Gawain questioned softly, too soft to be heard by the others. 

Galahad shrugged, looking towards Gawain and waiting for the other to continue. 

“Do you… not like talks of this?” 

Galahad couldn’t tell him that the words spoken by their brethren made his abdomen clench in discomfort, a sickness crawling into his stomach he didn’t have a word for but could only akin it to the feeling after eating something rotten. “It’s… tasteless.” 

Gawain tilted his head at that, his lips pursing as he thought. 

“I can see that, since you’re still  _ pure _ . Guess the idea of a rough shag is a little too much, huh?” Gawain grinned and elbowed Galahad in the side, and had Galahad been weaker, he would’ve been moved by the force used. 

Galahad blew a laugh out of his nose and pushed him back, using more force. 

Soon it was a spar, with everyone joining in, and Galahad could forget for a little bit the fear he felt whenever one of the hands strayed near his chest. 

—

He was sixteen. Layers upon layers Galahad wore, and while no one commented or even looked at him wrong, he still could see the extra flesh on his chest. He wasn’t like some of the ladies in the towns they visited, who’s breasts looked so large Galahad wondered how they stood up straight, but it was  _ enough.  _

His chest grew for awhile, starting when he was twelve and confusing him when he was tender in that area. Informing anyone would’ve been damming. 

It wasn’t a true worry for many years, but at sixteen, there was enough flesh on his chest to alert to others what the rest of his body looked like if he were to ever get undressed in front of them. 

Getting undressed was something everyone had to do, but he’d always gotten out of doing it in front of others. Whether it be in a water closet, on the outside of the tent, on the  _ inside  _ of the tent while everyone was changing, Galahad was always able to find ways to cover himself. 

“It’s no use practicing if your mind isn’t in it.” 

The words startled him, yanking him out of his thoughts. His hand tightened around the bow in his grasp, and he imagined the wood creaking with the force of his fingers. 

It was expertly made, though, by the man to the side of him. 

Tristan wasn’t Galahad’s favorite in the knights, not in the slightest. The man, while gentle with his bird, was far from caring when he spoke or interacted with the others. Being one of the older ones, too, Galahad felt on guard whenever he was around. 

That was common for him, though, due to his  _ secret. _

“Unlike  _ you, _ I can do something and think at the same time,” Galahad spit out. He’d forgotten he was even shooting while lost in thought, and it was evident from the arrow in the tree instead of the target. 

The side of Tristan’s mouth twitched, his only physical reaction to the jab before he said, “Not well,” and pointed at the aforementioned arrow. 

The only response Tristan got in return was a huff of annoyance. 

Stepping closer to Galahad, Tristan put his hands on the younger man’s shoulders and straightened his posture.

“Let  _ go, _ ” Galahad near growled, hunching in an attempt to hide his chest that still lay concealed under three layers of cloth. 

Tristan backed away, his eyes widening minutely before narrowing at him. 

“Posture is important. Breath, aim, and strength is all in posture.” Galahad watched as Tristan’s gaze dipped to his chest, and he felt himself grow cold. 

_ There’s no way he can see.  _

“It’s uncommon, but some men grow there,” Tristan said, saying it as though he was recounting what he ate that morning, “And no one would notice aside from me. Stand up straight,” As he said this, he moved forward again and moved Galahad’s shoulders once more, “-it draws attention to your shoulders and head, instead.” 

Galahad didn’t fight him this time and instead looked at Tristan with wonder. “There… are other people like me?”

Tristan gave his approximation of a shrug. A movement that looked natural on everyone else left Tristan looking tensed, as though he were another being forced into a human-suit. “I’ve seen men grow breasts. A man, actually. More a boy, like you. It went away, eventually.” Tristan looked to the boy in front of him, five years younger than him. “The man I met only had to wait a year until his chest returned to a male look. Maybe it’ll come sooner for you.” 

Galahad felt the hope leave his chest, replaced by something empty. 

This wasn’t what was happening to him, and he knew it. 

Tristan’s head quirked, his eyes narrowing once more. “Upset?” He asked, curiosity painting his words. 

Galahad forced out a small laugh, looking away from the all-seeing eye Tristan so often seemed to have. “Just — that’s so long to wait.” 

Tristan looked upon the younger man for a few seconds before tutting and taking a few steps back, where Galahad remembered him to be before he’d walked closer to him. 

“Aim for the middle,” Was all Tristan said.

Galahad’s shoulders went back, his back standing straight as he lifted the bow and hit the target perfectly. 

— 

Two weeks after the incident with Tristan, and in the woods, as everyone slept… Galahad wept. 

His stomach  _ hurt _ . 

Galahad had until dawn, then he would be discovered. Blood on his trousers, blood on the ground beneath him — it wouldn’t  _ stop.  _

He could only think of what might happen when he was found, and his hand tightened on the knife he’d taken after dinner when he’d felt the first pulse of wet heat coming from him. It hadn’t been too long before everyone either left or retired for the night, and sneaking away wasn’t hard. 

No one would notice he was gone until morning.

Leaning against a tree, he willed the tears to stop. His sobs grew less pronounced, and instead he only let out a mild hiccup. His face was slick, shiny with salt water of his own making.

He didn’t notice Tristan was near until he was right beside him, crouching low and looking at him questioningly. 

Galahad gasped, flipping the knife in his hand and bringing it to Tristan in a fluid motion that was easily dodged. 

“Are you hurt?” Came his voice after he rolled away from Galahad, and Galahad got to his feet, dropping down into a stance that mirrored Tristan’s. Tristan didn’t follow up on his question, his eyes raking down Galahad’s body before he seemed to notice where the blood was mostly coming from. 

His eyes immediately snapped up, and he straightened his stance. Galahad gasped as Tristan’s hands came up beside his head, palm out and fingers spread to signal surrender. 

Galahad backed away one more meter, and only then did he lower his arms from their defensive positioning in front of him. He didn’t drop the knife, didn’t dare, but his back straightened. A warrior didn’t attack a man with a white flag. 

Tristan looked down, and started pulling his shirt from the confines of his pants where they were tucked into, making Galahad inhale sharply and bark out an order, “ _ No, _ ” His voice came out strong, his body dropping into a defensive stance once more. “You will not get me alive.”

Tristan paused, looking back up at the other man with his eyebrows drawn together. He had the gall to look  _ confused, _ as though Galahad would just let him take what he wanted! 

“Get you…?” Tristan’s question trailed off and he made no other move besides a tilt of his head, waiting for elaboration. 

The near clueless expression on Tristan’s face only made rage fire up stronger in Galahad’s gut, his fingers tightening around the knife he held. He caught Tristan peering at  _ that,  _ finally _ .  _ “Playing the fool won’t get you anywhere — you intend to take from me and I’m telling you that you won’t succeed.” 

Tristan lifted his chin, looking down at Galahad as his posture remained non-threatening. “I’m going to cut up my shirt, and you can use this to staunch the blood flow. Nothing will be taken from you,” Tristan explained, his tone cautious and words coming slowly. He looked down at Galahad’s clothing. “If you wait here, I can go into town and gather you replacements for those.” He pointed to the previously solid grey fabric he wore, now soaked with blood at the crotch. 

Galahad’s eyebrows drew together, his heart beating heavy in his chest as he tried to understand what the other man was saying. “What? Why?”

“Because they’re covered in blood, Galahad.” 

Groaning, Galahad elaborated. “Why are you helping me? Are you mad?” 

Tristan just took out a small knife from his boot, and started cutting his shirt into neat rectangles. He discarded them in a neat pile in front of his feet, before picking them all up at once. He held it with both hands, walking towards Galahad with them in front of him. 

Galahad let him get close, but his body still tensed. The knife still sat in his hand. 

Tristan stopped, the pile of cloth held up like a peace offering. 

Galahad looked into the face of one of his fellow knights, a knight he’d never heard degrade another. While he’d seen him kill many, he never seemed to want to make someone suffer unless they were causing suffering themselves or if they’d attacked him first. He’d never spoken of women as a convenience, and Galahad couldn’t recall him speaking of women at all.

Looking into his eyes, he dropped the knife to the forest floor and took the cloth from him. 

“You’re a knight, just as any of us — and you say you’re a man?” He said, his face genuinely questioning Galahad on the matter. 

Galahad squared his jaw before gritting out a, “ _ Yes.” _

Tristan nodded. “Then that’s what you  _ shall  _ be and what you  _ have  _ been. This doesn’t change that.”

Galahad did everything in his power not to let out a sob, making a strangled noise come from his throat before saying in a hoarse voice, “Thank you.” 

All he got in response was a nod. “Stay here — camp would be dangerous for you.” 

Galahad nodded, and when Tristan left, Galahad was left with his own thoughts.

He cleaned himself up as best he could with his dirty clothes, and waited impatiently for the other to return. 

—

Five years passed, and Tristan never looked at Galahad differently. So many of their brethren died, and Galahad found himself blessed that he was able to sit next to Tristan that day. During the most recent battle — a scrimmage, almost, with how small it was — Tristan took a hit to the side, and Galahad had seen red. It reminded him that even in the smallest of battles, they could lose people. 

Tristan protected him through word as well as action all those years.

He’d ran his sword through the Woad attacking, feeling as it sunk through muscle and into its innards, sliding between ribs. He shifted his weight, and pulled it from the Woad by ripping through his side.

They were dead before they hit the ground. 

Galahad sat cross-legged by where Tristan lay. Cloth covered his wounds, the red seeping through the cloth slowly at first before it stopped. 

The wound wasn’t too deep, and it being on his side meant he’d survive unless it caught fever. 

Tristan slept, wine drunk to keep the pain at bay. 

Galahad fought the urge to hold his hand. 

— 

“You need to shave.” 

Galahad’s head whipped around to where Tristan sat in the corner of his room. Being twenty-three meant he no longer had to sleep in a room that wasn’t his own, and the fact so many people who owned rooms were no longer around to  _ do  _ it made it easy to get his own. Tristan was sharpening his arrows, and had the parts to make more sitting next to him. 

Galahad ran his hand along his chin and jaw, before letting the hand fall back to his lap. “You know very well I don’t have facial hair to shave.” 

“You can’t grow hair resembling ours, and right now people think you shave. But men who shave don’t grow the little soft, white hairs you do. Better to shave, and have nothing, then have people doubting your sex.” 

Galahad considered his words. “And… if people see me shaving, they’ll be even less likely to doubt.” 

Tristan nodded, his attention still on the arrow in his grasp. 

“I don’t know how to shave, Tristan.”

At Galahad’s admittance, Tristan paused his ministrations on the tip of the arrow. He put it to the side, on his pile of arrow and bow bits. Galahad wondered if he was making a new bow, or simply fixing an old one.

“I can show you.” 

Galahad hummed in agreement, his mouth quirking up into a smile. “What do we need?” 

Tristan glanced in the direction of his own room before replying, “I’ll get my supplies. Haven’t seen much use — they’d do better with you.”

Galahad smiled at him, and was pleased to see Tristan’s mouth quirk up in response. 

Galahad got his bucket of water and procured a small towel, waiting for Tristan. 

Waiting for Tristan was a regular thing, it seemed. From that terrifying night when he was sixteen, thinking Tristan meant him harm, all the way to now. For years, Tristan went to get things he couldn’t, got to ask questions he couldn’t. He wouldn’t know how to keep from staining everything once that time of the month hit if it weren’t for Tristan. He wouldn’t have gotten to avoid changing with others for as long as he did. 

The one time Galahad absolutely had to change before a battle at the age of eighteen, Tristan had been right next to him. Galahad had noticed how Tristan’s eyes never even went near his body, giving him the utmost privacy even as he stood less than twenty centimeters away. His larger frame had blocked Galahad’s entire body, and without seeing his lack of member and small breasts, one would never know he wasn’t one of them. 

The concept of him and  _ them _ was a bothersome one to him, but when he said  _ them _ , he never meant Tristan. 

Galahad thought if everyone accepted him as easily as Tristan, he’d never have to view others as a  _ them —  _ as something else. 

Tristan came back in, a blade and a bar of shaving soap in his hands. Galahad was perched on the side of his bed, his fingers twitching in what Tristan recognized to be a nervous tic. 

Looking to the scout, Galahad motioned to the water and towel. “I’ve seen some men shave, and they always had these on hand.” 

Without a reply, Tristan went to the corner to move the chair he’d been sat in and carried it with one hand to rest in front of Galahad. Tristan sat, his movements less than graceful yet still managing to not make a sound. Years of training taught them how to be quiet. 

So when Tristan wordlessly cupped his hand in the water and poured it over the soap, Galahad didn’t ask questions. Breaking the silence seemed to be… wrong. 

Tristan rubbed his hand on the soap, forming a lather, and brought his hand to spread it along the lower half of Galahad’s face. He paused when Galahad twitched away from him, but continued when Galahad gave a slight nod at him.

Eventually, Tristan had to speak. “Rub the soap along all the places you wish to shave, and make sure it’s thick. This blade is sharp.” The soap was white, bubbly on Galahad’s face. It tingled, and it took effort for Galahad not to immediately wipe it off with his sleeve. 

It also took effort not to flinch when Tristan brought the blade up to his face, pressed to his cheekbone. 

Tristan paused, making eye contact with Galahad.

Sometimes, the emotion in Tristan’s eyes amplified by his wrinkles and perpetually pouting lips, startled Galahad. There weren’t many occasions for Tristan to feel so deeply, what with being a knight and having most of his time dedicated to fighting. 

Galahad didn’t know what the look was in Tristan’s eyes right then, but he knew it was soft. It wasn’t the look of someone about to go into battle — a face he’d so often seen on the other.

There were a few times he’d seen emotions not pertinent to the fight, and they’d almost always been, in some regard, related to Galahad. 

Three years back, when it’d been found out one of their men forced himself on a woman in town, Tristan reported it to Arthur and got the man’s permission to issue something Galahad would’ve never expected: an execution. An execution for a crime so many people commited, a crime Galahad was sure other people in their group were guilty of in some way or another. 

Galahad had been present as Tristan brought the sword down on his neck, and in that moment Galahad saw the look in his eyes of anger and righteousness. When Tristan looked at Galahad afterwards, he’d nodded.

And after that, he knew- 

He knew he was truly safe with Tristan. 

“Do you trust me?” Tristan said, the blade still resting against the delicate skin of Galahad’s face.

Galahad didn’t dare move to nod. Opening his mouth slightly so as not to cut himself on the blade pressed to him, he muttered out, “Always.” 

The look in Tristan’s eyes changed again, showing  _ heat _ . His hazel eyes seemed nearly black, and Galahad didn’t know if it was the lighting or Tristan himself. 

“Good,” Was all the verbal reply Galahad received before Tristan ripped his gaze away from the other’s eyes, focusing once more on the blade at his cheek. 

Tristan spoke as he always had, giving directions on what to do as he did it. The blade felt cold on Galahad’s skin, but the touch was so feather-light he wondered if it was even doing anything of notice. 

Those instructive words of Tristan’s didn’t register in Galahad’s mind, the only thing he could focus on being Tristan’s hand on the back of his head, holding him still as he dragged the blade along his skin. His breath ghosted over Galahad’s face as he spoke, words coming out in puffs. 

Looking into Tristan’s face as he focused was one of Galahad’s favorite things to do. Tristan’s tongue came out to wet his lips between a sentence and the next, and Galahad’s eyes tracked the movement. He felt warmth at the bottom of his stomach, and was afraid of what it meant. 

A hard swallow, and Tristan’s gaze snapped back to Galahad’s eyes rather than focusing on the parts of his face he was shaving. Whatever he saw there gave him pause. 

Tristan moved the blade from Galahad’s skin, reaching to pick up the towel set beside him. He neatly ran the blade along it, the soap collecting on the towel and leaving the blade as shiny as before. He turned the towel to an unused side, dipping the clean part in the water bucket and bringing it to Galahad’s face to clean him. 

Galahad’s voice left him for a moment, allowing a few soft rubs of the towel before asking, “Did you already finish?” 

His voice sounded small, and Galahad cursed himself inwardly for letting his confusion make him forget to  _ talk from his chest, _ dammit. 

“No.” Tristan’s gentle hand gathered up the last of the soap before he folded the towel and set it on the floor. 

“Then why did you stop?” Galahad asked, his normal voice returning. 

Tristan’s now free hands cupped his face as he leant down, looking into Galahad’s eyes. 

Frozen to the spot, Galahad watched as Tristan came closer.

He was only able to move when their lips touched, and the  _ need  _ to be closer hit him like a wave. His hands reached up to Tristan’s hair, curling into the hair at the base of his neck. For someone with a haircut as…  _ unique _ as Tristan’s, he kept his hair clean. 

Tristan pushed forward, opening his mouth and sliding his tongue between the younger man’s lips. Galahad opened underneath him, his movements unsure and untrained but  _ wanting.  _

Galahad found his back pressed into his bed, Tristan looming over him with his elbows on the side of his head and his legs straddling Galahad’s thighs. 

With the hot, wet slide of their mouths, Galahad could barely hear his own thoughts. 

Tristan’s mouth left his, a trail of saliva connecting their lips until he leaned down to press kisses along Galahad’s jaw. Galahad’s hands moved down to Tristan’s shoulders, his hands squeezing the flesh underneath as he thought. 

It was when Tristan reached his neck that Galahad pushed him away, and pushed him away  _ hard. _

Tristan shot up, able to catch himself on the bed before he lost balance and tumbled backward. His legs still framed Galahad’s thighs, and Galahad hurriedly pulled himself out from under him and into the wall by his bed. His back pressed against the familiar surface his eyes on Tristan and only him. 

“Why.” 

It didn’t sound like a question coming from Galahad, it sounded like a command. 

“Why?” Tristan asked back, and  _ that _ sounded like an actual question. 

Galahad swallowed the extra saliva in his mouth, a part of him giddy that he had some of Tristan inside of him while the other part was furious with the man sitting in front of him. 

“Why did you— Why do you want me? Is it…” Galahad’s heart hurt at the thought, but the words tumbled out anyway, “Is it because of my body? Did you protect my secret all this time so you could have it all for  _ yourself _ ?” Venom and anger dripped from his voice, while he knew hurt shown on his face. 

Tristan’s eyes narrowed, his mouth twitching into a frown before he smoothed his face over. 

“I didn’t protect you. I just didn’t say anything.”

Galahad’s head tilted, asking for elaboration without really asking. 

“You could protect yourself, there wasn’t a need for me to.” Tristan leaned forward again, letting himself ever so slowly get closer to Galahad. “Getting you new clothing isn’t protecting you. If I thought you truly  _ needed _ protecting, I wouldn’t feel this need that I do now.” 

Galahad let Tristan’s hands run through his hair, and Tristan continued. “If someone forced themselves on you here, you’d eviscerate them before they even got on top of you with the knife you have stashed. You do have a knife, yes?” Galahad nodded jerkily, the hands in his hair making him have to fight the urge to close his eyes. “Good. Don’t tell me where it is.” 

Hands left Galahad’s hair, and Tristan laid down on his bed, laying on his side and looking up at where Galahad looked down at him.

Galahad hadn’t anticipated how warm the sight of dark, braided hair on his pillow would make him. 

Galahad laid down beside him, propped up on his elbow as he stared at the man running through his every thought. Galahad knew Tristan was letting Galahad make the decision, and knew if he told Tristan to leave he would be out the door as quick as his feet could move. 

And that’s why Galahad wanted him — Tristan didn’t think he needed protecting, and didn’t think Galahad’s body meant he should be subservient to him. He was one of the strongest and most skilled people Galahad knew, and yet never did anything to hurt him. 

Galahad could be honest and say he  _ didn’t _ know much of Tristan's history, but he surprised himself with the realization that he  _ wanted _ to. 

Tristan looked back at him, his sharp eyes cataloging every movement and microexpression registering on his face. Galahad knew he saw the moment he decided, but he still didn’t move.

Galahad brought his hand up to Tristan’s face, cupping his cheek just as Tristan had his a few moments ago. “You… want to be with a man?” He asked Tristan softly, his thumb tracing the tattoos on his sharp cheekbones. 

Tristan nodded, saying, “You are more of a man than anyone in this camp.” 

Tears reaching the corners of his eyes, Galahad pulled Tristan over to him and kissed him with more passion than intended. Noses bumped into one another, teeth hit each other — it wasn’t perfect, but neither were they. 

Galahad wrapped his leg around Tristan’s hip, pulling him even closer. Galahad wanted them so close he couldn’t tell when one ended and the other began. 

Galahad pulled his head back slightly to turn and get a better angle, shivering when Tristan’s hand went up the back of his shirt. Tristan paused. 

“It’s good, don’t stop,” Galahad mumbled against his lips, his hand moving from Tristan’s cheek to the back of his head to once again tangle in his hair. 

Obeying orders, Tristan moved his hand up and down Galahad’s back and occasionally pausing at a scar. He had many, but none too deep besides the ones he got as a young boy. Having a surplus of scars meant you couldn’t guard yourself, and guarding himself was all Galahad knew. 

Tristan sucked on his bottom lip, pulling a small whimper from Galahad. He didn’t think he’d be vocal in bed with another person, but going this long with no sexual contact made him  _ sensitive _ . The others thought he was waiting for marriage and playfully called him  _ The Pure _ , but the truth lay with his secret. 

With tremendous effort, Galahad pulled away from the kiss.

“How far are we taking this?” Galahad questioned.

“It’s what you want tonight.” 

Galahad wondered if this easy acceptance would change with experience, if once they got more comfortable, Tristan would begin telling him what  _ he  _ wanted, too.

He found he wanted that for the first time, too. 

“I don’t know,” Galahad ran his hand down along Tristan’s front, fingers lightly touching the fabric that covered him and hid the muscles underneath. His stomach jumped ever so slightly when his finger ran over his navel. In that moment, Galahad cupped Tristan’s sex with his hand. He squeezed the hard flesh and relished in the gasp Tristan let out. “I want to make you feel good, I  _ do  _ know that. What is it? Do you want my hand? My mouth? Or  _ more? _ ” Galahad smirked at the flush creeping up Tristan’s neck, and felt his own warmth and wetness in between his legs. 

It wasn’t the first time that’d happened at all, as Galahad was well-versed in the art of self-pleasure. It was something he could only indulge in at night as the others slept, lest someone walk into his room uninvited to share news, but it was something of a routine. Bringing himself pleasure made him like the body he was given more, felt like he was wearing his own shoes rather than stepping into somebody else’s. 

And the ability to climax multiple times was a pretty good bonus.

At Galahad’s question, Tristan let out a low growl and rolled on top of him, straddling his thighs once more as he claimed his lips. The hand that wasn’t holding himself up reached down to pull at Galahad’s shirt, lifting it up. Galahad moved his arms to aid in his shirt’s removal, but when the fabric was gone and tossed aside by Tristan, he instinctively crossed his arms over his chest. 

Tristan straightened up, looking down as Galahad covered himself. He pulled his own shirt off, the side of his mouth quirking up when Galahad’s arms relaxed and left his chest. 

“We are always equal,” Tristan said, leaning down to kiss Galahad once more before laying kisses along his neck, stopping at the join of his neck and shoulder to suck a mark into his skin. His hands moved up Galahad’s torso, feeling the muscles of years of hard work and battle laying underneath his skin. Cupping a breast, he was pleased to feel Galahad shiver and run his own hand up Tristan’s stomach— 

—Before setting his hand on Tristan’s own breast. 

Tristan let out a huff of a laugh against the other’s mouth, grinning when Galahad pulled away slightly to say, “Equal in every aspect, yes?” 

Tristan’s thumb rubbed over and around Galahad’s nipple, loving the hitch of breath it gave him. “Yours is nicer for holding.” 

“Just maybe.” Galahad gave a little squeeze to the muscle underneath his hand anyway. He moved his own thumb over the bigger man’s nipple, a facsimile of what Tristan was doing to him. “Does this do anything for you?” 

“It’s pleasant,” Tristan started, leaning down to whisper in Galahad’s ear, “But I think I just like your hands on me.”

Galahad shivered, his mouth stretching into a lazy smile as he placed a kiss under Tristan’s ear, his nose nuzzling into the other’s hair as he did so. 

“I’m going to put my mouth here,” Tristan said, his thumb running over Galahad’s nipple once again. Galahad bit his bottom lip and nodded. 

Tristan didn’t immediately go for the center, instead he kissed around the soft flesh of Galahad’s breast, delighting as he heard Galahad’s breaths come quicker. He wondered if he’d ever played with himself here, wondered if he knew just how sensitive this area could be. 

Hand grabbing the breast he wasn’t paying attention to, he pinched the bud there while he wrapped his mouth around the other, flicking the tip with his tongue before letting himself indulge in a slight suction. 

The sound Galahad made was glorious. 

Galahad’s breath hitched in what could sound like a hiccup or a sob, depending on the interpretation. Tristan sucked harder, and in curiosity he let his teeth scrape, being rewarded by Galahad’s body jerking slightly to the side and his hands clutching his sides, as though wanting to keep him there. 

Tristan could feel the moans being held back, the sounds that almost were. Later, when they were free and got to be  _ alone, truly _ alone, Tristan wanted to make Galahad  _ scream. _

Feeling him twitch as he moved his mouth to the other breast, feeling Galahad sigh as he ran his fingers through Tristan’s hair… That was good enough, for now. 

At one whimper, Tristan couldn’t help but rut against Galahad’s thighs, the movement letting Galahad feel every bit of Tristan’s arousal. 

“Imagining yourself inside me, are you?” He said, saying the words right as they come to mind, “I know I’m imagining you in me, and my body’s wanting it, too — preparing itself for you. I’ve never been this ready for a shag in my life.”

Tristan let out a low growl, looking up at Galahad from where he previously had his mouth. The chill of the air hit him then, as Tristan moved to kiss him on the mouth once more. It was a wet kiss, open-mouthed and full of tongue — two people trying to get as close to each other as possible with only their mouths. 

Tristan shifted off of Galahad, breaking the kiss and moving one leg to wedge in between Galahad’s instead of straddling the other. He brought his hand down to cup Galahad’s sex, pleased to feel the unmistakable warmth of arousal even through his pants. At this, Tristan moved off of Galahad once more to take off his pants, not making the same mistake of undressing Galahad first again. 

After a short pause of watching more of Tristan's skin meet the air, Galahad quickly pushed down his own pants, lifting his hips to allow him to remain laying as he did so. Galahad's pants slid off the bed at the same time Tristan's hit the floor, and Tristan was upon him once more. 

Galahad spread his legs, his eyes roaming over the body of his partner, his fellow knight, as he settled between Galahad's legs. He watched Tristan consider his most intimate of areas before he met Galahad's eyes. 

"Now, I'm going to put my mouth there, too," He said before getting onto his belly and wrapping his arms around Galahad's legs from the bottom. Galahad made a sound of surprise as Tristan dragged his whole body towards him and nuzzled the hair on the inside of his thigh. Galahad could feel his breaths brush against his opening, warm and teasing. 

At first, it was a simple kiss, a brush of lips against Galahad's clit that had his muscles twitching, fluttering in anticipation. 

He took the tip of his tongue and circled it around Galahad's clit as he moved one hand to position his finger onto his entrance, wet as Tristan thought a person could get. If Galahad had a dick, Tristan would still want this, but the self-lubrication of Galahad's body was remarkable. 

Galahad let out a vocal sigh, and when Tristan let himself look up, he saw Galahad's eyes closed in pleasure. Galahad’s hips twitched under Tristan’s hand, Tristan letting out a smile when the other tilted his pelvis to put more pressure on the finger at his entrance. He slid one finger in, finally, marveling at how wet the other was. All the way to the knuckle, Tristan felt the minute twitches of muscle in Galahad, asking —  _ begging  _ — for more. 

He pulled the first one out, and quickly replaced it with two more, Galahad letting out a soft, muffled moan at the motion. Galahad’s arm rested over his mouth, keeping the sounds of his pleasure hidden behind his teeth. Tristan curled his fingers up and Galahad responded by moving his hips once more, fucking himself on Tristan’s fingers.

Galahad’s breaths sounded throughout the room, his chest heaving with the effort of making as little noise as possible. It was the middle of the day, and there was no telling who was out and about. If it had been  _ planned _ , Galahad likely would’ve insisted on waiting until nightfall. 

Tristan’s tongue swirled around Galahad’s clit before sucking harder than before, Galahad feeling the warmth and tension in his body that meant he was  _ close. _

“More…” Galahad breathed out. 

Fingering himself wasn’t something Galahad did often — too put off by the feel of the inside of his body on his hands — but having Tristan’s strong, thick,  _ skilled _ fingers inside him was better than anything he’d ever felt. 

At the insertion of another finger, making that three fingers in him as Tristan kept  _ sucking _ , Tristan knew the exact moment the dam broke. 

Galahad’s body spasmed, his thighs pressing against Tristan’s head and his inner muscles near trapping Tristan’s fingers — not that he wanted to move them anyway. His fingers grasped the bedding, so hard Tristan wondered at the strength of the sheets. 

Continuing moving his tongue along Galahad, Tristan relished in the near sobs Galahad let out at the overstimulation. It was a mix between Tristan’s name and “ _ Gods…” _

Galahad reached down to pull Tristan’s hair, an outright signal for him to stop. When Tristan withdrew his fingers, Galahad let out a sound at the emptiness but smiled when Tristan crawled up and kissed him. Galahad could feel the moisture from  _ himself _ on Tristan’s lips and beard and the pleasure and love he felt far outweighed the revulsion of bodily fluids.

His own skin was slick, and Tristan noticed from the way his eyes crinkled in joy. His eyes were near black with pupil, and without having to look down, Galahad knew Tristan was hard. He was hard before, and now his length pressed against his hip from where he lay next to him, precome smearing onto the skin there, reminding Galahad of what he had hoped for this adventure. 

Galahad turned onto his side, facing Tristan as he took his cock in hand. The other’s eyes shuttered closed before opening once more and looking down, as though he needed to see it with his own eyes to believe it. Galahad looked down as well, marveling at the  _ feeling  _ of it: skin so soft but flesh so hard underneath. He ran his hand up the shaft experimentally, Tristan making a choked off noise as his hips bucked slightly. 

At the tip, he ran his thumb along the head, shifting the foreskin and looking at the near purple head glistening with precome. 

Another day, Galahad wanted to get his mouth around that. Another day, he wanted to taste all Tristan could offer, wanted to milk him dry with tongue and cheek and throat alone. 

But today… 

“What’ll it take to get you inside me?” Galahad whispered, looking at Tristan’s eyes and grinning when his eyes shot back up from looking at Galahad’s hand. 

Tristan licked his bottom lip, his eyes trailing down Galahad’s body on the bed. 

“A kiss,” was Tristan’s response, his mouth sitting in a calm smile. The look of adoration in Tristan’s eyes was almost enough to make Galahad seize in panic, but he was sure he looked the same when he looked upon the scout. 

Galahad smiled at his lover, letting his emotions show in his face as he said, “You needn’t say anymore.” One hand came up to cradle Tristan’s face, the other pressing against his chest, eager for more skin as he leaned in. 

Their lips brushed, Galahad and Tristan’s breaths mingling. Galahad didn’t think he’d ever get enough of feeling Tristan’s breath on his face, of feeling his heartbeat against his palm. Feeling the blood running strong through his veins, Galahad knew everything was alright. He knew the one person who stood beside him would continue until he could no longer; even then, Tristan would have to be pried from Galahad’s iron grip before anything could happen to him — Galahad would make  _ sure  _ of it. 

Their mouths slid together, lips opening and allowing entry, a sigh leaving Galahad when their tongues slid together. Tristan’s hair tickled Galahad’s face as the other man shifted on top of him, turning Galahad to have his back pressed against the bed. Galahad ran his fingers through the Tristan’s unbraided hair, making a small noise when the kiss was broken. His legs had nudged Galahad’s apart, to where he now kneeled between them. Galahad’s eyes drifted down to Tristan’s length, his mind only now wrapping around the fact Tristan was going to be closer to him than anyone had ever been before — opening him up in the most loving way imaginable. 

Galahad wasn’t a child, he didn’t think there was anything  _ inherently _ romantic or deep about a physical connection such as this. People had sex to let off steam, they had sex as part of their job, they had sex to have children, but Galahad was so  _ excited _ to be connected to Tristan on a mental as well as a physical level. And from the look in Tristan’s eyes, Galahad could tell he felt the same.

Tristan took himself in hand, Galahad watching the rise and fall of his chest as he did so. Tristan’s eyes flitted down at the movement of Galahad spreading his legs and bending his knees. 

“I’m going to pull out, at the end,” Tristan informed Galahad, surprising the other when he realized he hadn’t even  _ thought _ of that, hadn’t even thought of the possibility of… 

“Thank you,” Galahad choked out, not wanting to linger on that train of thought any longer. Tristan gave him a nod, scooting up and letting Galahad feel Tristan’s head rub against his clit. It was soft, not at all like the pressure of Tristan’s mouth from before, but knowing it was the precursor to penetration made Galahad squirm underneath him anyways. 

Eyes roaming over the body underneath his, Tristan placed one hand on Galahad’s thigh while the other stayed on himself. Galahad tilted his hips, moving himself so that Tristan’s head nudged his entrance. The side of Tristan’s mouth quirked up.

“Eager, are we?”

“Eager for you to  _ finally  _ do something,” Galahad teased, not minding the waiting in the slightest. Tristan stared down at him with such love and adoration, he had half a mind to see if he could orgasm just from that alone. 

Letting out a chuckle at Galahad’s teasing, a mischievous glint appeared in his eye before he thrust into the wet heat of Galahad. 

Galahad wrapped his legs around Tristan’s waist on instinct, his strong legs keeping Tristan in place as his muscles flexed around him, getting used to the intrusion. He couldn’t help but let out a small moan, biting his lip to conceal it. 

Tristan leaned over, replacing Galahad’s bite with his own as he took Galahad’s bottom lip in his mouth and gently sucked. His arms framed Galahad’s body, his elbows holding him up. The grip of Galahad’s legs loosened, quickly followed by a barely intelligible, “Move,” from the man underneath. 

“My pleasure,” Tristan huffed, pulling out before thrusting in again. He bottomed out each time, moving the bed frame with each thrust. 

If anyone found them, Tristan’s body would cover Galahad’s well enough they wouldn’t know of his truth, and as long as it were one of their pagan brothers or Arthur, they wouldn’t mind the consummation of love between two men. Tristan longed to mark up the knight, as well as be marked in return. Not to show the world their partnership, no, but to be able to see their love physically. 

Tristan's thrusts sped up as he broke the kiss and held himself up with one arm while the other went down to Galahad's sex to rub his clit in time with his thrusts. Tristan was nearing his end and, from the way Galahad’s stomach muscles clenched before his eyes, he knew Galahad was as well. 

Slowing his thrusts, he sped up the ministrations on Galahad’s sex, delighted when he felt Galahad’s muscles clench around him. Galahad arched his back and… he was lost. 

Before, when Galahad climaxed, Tristan hadn’t been able to view it in its full beauty, but now he could watch the way his eyebrows rose in his pleasure, the way his hands grasped for anything he could clench onto. One had found his forearm, leaving crescent cuts where his nails dug in. His legs pulled him forward, and Tristan had been through many battles before, but keeping himself from releasing into Galahad was the hardest thing he’d ever attempted. To the point where he had to slightly pull out to grip the base of his dick  _ hard. _

Galahad spasms slowly relaxed, his legs releasing their death grip on Tristan’s waist. The scout quickly pulled out, not finishing a single stroke before coming on Galahad’s abdomen. It was better than the sheets — which would need to be washed anyway — but the sheets as they were would already be reason enough for a good teasing. No need to add to the mess.

And Tristan found he liked the look of his release on Galahad's skin, anyway. 

Galahad still lay underneath him, his chest heaving and his eyes half-lidded. He looked a minute away from dozing, and Tristan felt the same. Seeing the light peeking through the cracks of the wall, it looked to be only afternoon. The fact that they hadn't been interrupted was astounding, with a knight meeting usually happening at least once per day, or at least one of the knights wanting to go out drinking. 

Right as Tristan found himself thinking that, footsteps sounded from the hallway, and Tristan saw Galahad's eyes widen and his body curl in on itself. Right when the footsteps stopped at the door, Tristan threw himself over Galahad, positioning his body in the same way he had when he was inside him. 

"Galaha-  _ Oh, _ " Gawain's voice dropped into a shocked whisper. 

Tristan turned his head, his upper body still covering all of Galahad's. "He's busy." 

Gawain slowly nodded, turning away and closing the door softly behind him. 

Tristan fell down next to Galahad, pleased that the problem was solved. Galahad's eyes remained wide, and his chest was heaving from fright. 

Turning over, Tristan wrapped his arm around Galahad's torso and put his head on the other man's shoulder. 

"You know we have very little issue with male relationships," He mumbled against Galahad's skin, feeling more so than seeing the nod that followed. 

“Even Gawain has been seen cohorting with the male prostitutes in town,” Galahad agreed, “But that doesn’t mean their views of us won’t change.”

Tristan propped himself on his elbow to look down at the other, his arm still loosely wrapped around him. “Is that what you’re worried about? The other’s opinions?” 

The shake of Galahad’s head was near immediate, his eyebrows drawing together in his thoughts. “No, not that at all. My feelings for you couldn’t be kept dormant by their thoughts, you needn’t worry about that.” His hand came up to cup Tristan’s cheek as he looked into his eyes, wanting Tristan to understand what he was saying. “With change of thought, comes scrutiny, and I fear I will be revealed if they look too closely.” 

Leaning down to kiss him softly, Tristan brought his own hand up to pet Galahad’s hair, winding his fingers through the unruly curls. He broke away, saying, “They have no idea. I have heard of all the knights’ gossip, and you never reach their lips — besides them making fun of your purity. I’m a scout, I pay attention to what’s happening, Galahad. Even socially, though it may not seem so.”

Galahad smiled up at Tristan, and Tristan loved how  _ soft _ he looked when he was happy. There was still the build of a warrior in his neck and shoulder muscles, still lines of stress around his eyes and on his forehead from living the dangerous life they all lived, but underneath all that was a kindhearted man, who’d had to deal with so much more than anyone should have.

Sleep was weighing heavy at Tristan’s eyelids — something he was used to after a nice orgasm — but he still wanted to clean up before his come dried on Galahad’s skin.

Tristan climbed over Galahad, leaving a kiss on his forehead to not startle him. He reached for the long since forgotten washcloth, and dipped a clean corner into the water beside the bed. Ringing it out until it was only damp, he brought it to Galahad’s abdomen where his come lay drying. 

“ _ Cold _ ,” Galahad spit out while his stomach muscles jumped at the unpleasant sensation. A grin graced Tristan’s features, getting even larger when Galahad glared at him in return. 

Wiping the last of the come off Galahad, Tristan placed the washcloth next to the water bucket for future cleaning. “Done,” Tristan said, his tone as close to carefree as it could get as he climbed back over Galahad and lay next to him once more. 

Galahad huffed, but still brought his arms to wrap around his lover, delighting in the feel of Tristan’s arms around him as well. 

Tristan breathed against his skin, and a certain stillness in the air made Galahad open his mouth. 

“I am yours,” He whispered, the words escaping him without his control. 

“You are nobody’s but your own, but that’s how I prefer you,” Tristan left a kiss on the skin of his chest where his face lay. “I love you, too,” The words felt odd in Tristan’s mouth, but he could feel their meaning in his chest, in his stomach, in his very bones. His body and his mind wanted to stay in this moment, next to Galahad, forever. 

Galahad tightened his grip on Tristan, shoving his face in his hair and closing his eyes.

—— 

Galahad, having been a part of many battles before, was familiar with all the sensations regarding  _ war _ . He knew the smell of blood intimately. He knew the feeling of air being moved by a blade that just barely missed. He knew the pain of loss and knew how it cut deeper than any wound he’d sustained. 

So many of their brothers in arms fallen — so many seats at the round table empty.

The battle with the Saxons raged on, a constant drawl of his sword meeting flesh. Fighting was second nature, muscle memory, the moves beaten into him since the first time he held a sword. 

The jarring feeling of metal hitting bone brought him out of the battle haze, ripping his sword from the saxon he’d skewered. Few still stood, bodies littering the ground with slash wounds or arrows protruding from their corpses. The Woads had proven to be a valuable addition to their small army, Galahad noted. 

He registered the dull pain of a dagger cutting through the flesh of his upper left arm, moved out of the way so no further damage could follow, and stabbed his sword blindly where he knew the person to be behind him. The sound of a body falling followed.

Sounds of battle lessening, Galahad looked around to find his next target or see if he could spot an ally to cover as he took a bit of cloth out of a pocket and wrapped it loosely around the cut on his arm. 

In the distance he saw Saxons falling, the force of the Woads’ arrows pushing them back and onto the ground to die. Galahad shook his head slightly in disbelief. Just because the Woads were valuable, didn’t mean he couldn’t allow himself to still feel surprise at the turn of events. Them gaining such an enormous force because of Arthur’s kindness would be something Galahad remembered for the rest of his days.

Still surveying the surrounding battlefield, Galahad ran towards where he knew the center of the fight to be. In his own battles, jumping from person to person, he’d been drawn towards the edge — which was a regular thing for him. Seeing the end of the fight always drew him towards the outside, where he could pick off people one by one instead of taking out a few at once. He  _ could  _ fight dozen soldiers at once and end up victorious — all of them could. But not everyone could be in the midst of action, and taking out the wings of the battalion kept them from converging upon his allies in the middle. 

There was still a group left, and in that group he could see the Saxon leader—

Fighting Tristan.

Galahad saw Tristan back away sharply and hold his side, the same side he’d been hurt before all those years ago, and at the sight Galahad’s legs pushed him faster than he ever thought he could run. 

A few other moves on Tristan and the Saxon’s part, and Tristan was pushed to his knees. 

The Saxon raised his blade…

And Galahad slung his sword across his neck in one fell swoop, his anger letting him push through bone and cartilage and arteries unhindered as he decapitated the man who  _ dare _ touch Tristan.

The headless body fell to the ground, but Galahad wasn’t paying attention to that. Tristan fell sideways onto the ground, landing on the side he wasn’t clutching in pain. 

There was nothing Galahad wanted more than to drop with him, to tend to his wounds and brush his hair from his face, but that wasn’t possible. Enemies still lingered, and while their fight was leaving them, a knight on his knees would do the scout no good. 

Galahad fought over Tristan, trying to ignore the tugging in his gut when he didn’t see the other  _ moving. _

Bodies, bodies, and bodies. Blood stained his hands as he got messy with his fighting. 

_ Tristan wasn’t moving. _

Where were their allies?

Where was Gawain? Lancelot? Arthur? 

Tristan’s bird flew above, circling the area.  _ Surely _ that meant Tristan was alive? Would the bird stay if not for him? 

The rest of the fighting passed in a mad haze, Galahad trying his best to fight off the remaining Saxons while Tristan lay still behind him. 

When not a Saxon was left in sight, Galahad fell to his knees beside Tristan.

Tristan’s name left Galahad’s mouth before he could even think it, his hands reaching out to rub against the other man’s cheek soothingly. “The fight’s over. It’s done. We’re free.  _ Move _ ,” He couldn’t help the last word sounding sharp, it coming out more like an order than a comfort. 

A sob built up and came out of Galahad before he could help it, a sickening feeling entering his stomach as his imagination supplied him with  _ a world without Tristan _ . His hand slowly left Tristan’s cheek before moving to press against his chest, trying to see if his heart still beat. 

“Trying to get one last feel?” Came the raspy voice of Tristan. Galahad’s eyes snapped to his face, and Tristan looked back at him. His face was tired and pale, his eyes focusing and unfocusing.

“I was trying to check if you were still alive!” 

“You didn’t even check my breathing.” 

“I’m not exactly in the best state of mind right now, Tristan,” Galahad snapped. 

A pause. “In this life, either one of us could fall at any time. It's something we're required to accept.”

Galahad didn’t answer immediately, his attention going to the wound while he kept his ears out for anyone who could be getting close. After a moment, he replied, “We’re free. No more contracts,” He looked into Tristan’s eyes, “And I don’t want to have to imagine losing you to battle once more.” 

Tristan stayed silent, looking intently at Galahad’s face. A few moments passed, and whatever he saw in Galahad’s face he seemed to approve of as he closed his eyes and left Galahad to do as he pleased to his wound. 

It felt like it took forever for the others to join them, Arthur appearing by Galahad, his face struck with grief. “Lancelot… didn’t make it,” Arthur said by way of greeting, the news causing Galahad to rub his hand along his face and let out a sigh. 

“Is Tristan holding on?” Arthur said, not waiting for anyone else to speak. Sometimes, Arthur dealt with his pain by talking over it and moving onto the next topic; Galahad let it slide.

Tristan breathed out, “I’d say he is.” 

Galahad let out a startled laugh, the sides of his mouth unwittingly turning up into a smile as he gazed at his lover’s face, proud of his strength. “The wound is deep, but if we take care of him like before he should survive.” In a spur of the moment decision, Galahad reached up and pet Tristan’s hair. It was wet with sweat and blood — not his own — but it was still  _ Tristan _ , and that was all Galahad needed.

“Good. Lancelot wouldn’t want to know another one of us died with him.” At this, Arthur turned away to gather the rest of the knights and talk to the Woads.

Galahad stayed at Tristan’s side until Bors and Gawain showed up to help him carry Tristan to town and into his room, where Tristan finally passed out. The town physician came in by request of Arthur, tending to Tristan’s few cuts and stabs and dressing them with cloth. 

The physician showed Galahad how to change the cloth, giving him instructions on how to clean the wounds as well. As long as Tristan didn’t catch a fever, he would survive. 

Galahad waited with his hand grasping Tristan’s, and when Tristan opened his eyes and looked into his eyes, Galahad gave him a kiss on the cheek. 

Tristan’s eyes were clearer, his mind able to focus on things other than survival now that he’d been bandaged and was out of the fight. He immediately zeroed in on Galahad’s arm. “You got hit?” 

Galahad followed his gaze, only then remembering the cut he’d received. “It was before you fell.”

“And you didn’t think of it? Your arm is red with blood.” 

At it being brought up, Galahad registered the dull pain that lingered, as well as the sharp jolts whenever he moved his middle or ring finger, but it wasn’t life-threatening. Cleaning it at the same time he cleaned Tristan’s wound would be all the treatment needed. “I was in the midst of battle, and there was a more  _ important  _ injury to look after,” He retorted, looking pointedly at the bandages that wrapped around Tristan’s middle.

Tristan took a deep breath, his grip tightening on Galahad’s hand minutely as he closed his eyes with the effort it took. 

Silence followed, Tristan breathing in and out and Galahad watching all the same. When Tristan opened his eyes again, Galahad asked, “Can you imagine being out of battle? Is it possible?” His thumb ran along Tristan’s hand absentmindedly, feeling safe in the relief of knowing Tristan should survive.

“It’s a hard picture to imagine — I have no experience to paint it with.” Tristan’s eyes found Galahad’s. “But as I have followed you into battle, I will follow you out of it.”

Galahad’s face split in a smile so large it hurt his cheeks, his hand tightening around Tristan’s as his eyes flickered down.

“We’ll have to wait until you heal, likely until spring, but we can go anywhere now,” Galahad said, “Within reason.”

Tristan hummed. “We’ll decide later. We have the rest of our lives.”

Galahad leaned over, dropping a short kiss on his lips. “Yeah, we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://haljords.tumblr.com/) if you'd like! 
> 
> title is from a song by black hill & silent island. this is [my writing playlist atm](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4nE7RNUwjc5Jhfp0ToRI8e?si=vLNa3uSJTq60aKMP2qyJaA) if ya interested ;0
> 
> and also my [General Hannibal playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3mSOtWI4mm7ZSZ6FDD4KSs?si=J7FuFiOqSc-2UZkAq7K0kw) if ur into that


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